


Auld Lang Syne

by ilup



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Bonding, Characters Talking, Dialogue, Fluffy Ending, Friendship, Gen, Lonesome Road DLC, New Years, One Shot, Post-Lonesome Road, The Divide (Fallout)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilup/pseuds/ilup
Summary: Old World traditions carry on. The courier spends time with Ulysses just as the year turns.





	Auld Lang Syne

Dust storms bear down on Hopeville, yet radiation storms freeze the rubble in ruin. The Divide teems with remnants of its past. A United States Army tank lies overturned far below, a tunneler no doubt lurking beneath. Propaganda posters whip in the gales, flipping and shredding apart. Legion and NCR troops become one, their bodies flayed to muscle and reanimated. The Marked Men set up shop out of sight, counting on prey to drop in.

In quiet harmony, the courier kneels next to Ulysses, gazing toward the building storms. Maybe out of remorse. Maybe for pity. She keeps an array of long-range weapons to her side, palm relaxing on a worn rifle. The storms intensify, obscuring the view. The courier glances at her Pip-Boy. _2282_. She’s just missed when the clock turned. Time ticks slower in the Divide, but it stole away.

“Never knew these things could count up so far,” she says, tapping at her Pip-Boy.

“No doubt counting on it, knowing what would happen. Old World tech looking to remain,” Ulysses says. He keeps Old Glory in his lap.

“Do you know what pre-war people did to celebrate the new year?”

“America held fast to tradition. Tell.”

“I figured it was my turn to give a history lesson here.”

The courier pushes her weapons further back, making room to sit cross-legged. She pulls out her canteen and takes a swig of bitter drink, wincing. Screwing the top back on the canteen, she feels tannins leaching moisture from her mouth. She smacks her lips a few times feeling them chap from the liquid and the dusty air.

“Yeesh. Strong stuff.”

“You’re meant to drink it in one shot. Water may be a better choice.”

“You providing?”

Ulysses extends an arm for his canteen. Sometimes, the courier doesn’t think he’s even human, like there’s mechanical parts underneath his radiation mask. It’s little things telling her otherwise. She takes the offer and swishes the water around in her mouth. It takes a few rounds to wash down the dryness before she feels alright to speak. She hands it back, and he nudges down his mask to take a sip. He’s got a nose and lips, almost surprisingly. They disappear under the mask.

“They’d rig up explosives and shoot ‘em off into the sky,” the courier says.

“Explains much of Old World’s tendencies,” he says. The mask hides any expression.

“Thought you’d like it. Arcade let me know.”

“Comrade of yours?”

“I prefer to call him a friend. Knows a lot about Old World stuff.” The courier gazes upward. “He doesn’t like ED-E either. You two might would get along.” She looks back at Ulysses, raising gloved fingers and wiggling them around. “The things are called fireworks. They shoot off from the ground like a bullet and burst and sparkle.” She smiles, expanding her wiggling fingers outward.

Ulysses shifts his eyes back toward the canyon. Sand churns in thick spirals screwing toward the ground.

“Invented by the Chinese way long ago. You can thank ‘em for gunpowder, too.”

“Can thank them for many things, courier.”

The courier’s smile wilts. She expects his eyes to narrow, his brows to furrow. They remain steady, unblinking.

“If a rancher raises a bighorner, and that bighorner grows up and rams someone, is it the rancher’s fault?”

“Of the one provoking the assault. Mutual, often.” He secures a grip on Old Glory.

“I’m sorry.”

He remains silent, his head tilted to the side. Twisted locks obscure sallow eyes.

“Courier to courier. Sometimes we don’t know what we’re bearing. Could destroy the world for all we knew. I was dumb enough to do it twice. But I couldn’t know. You get that, don’t you?”

“Foolish indeed.” His grizzled voice is low but lacks the resolve it had coming through ED-E and at the Temple.

“I don’t know what you’re bearing.” The courier draws her knees up to her chest and rests her arms crossed. “But I can try to find out.”

“Try as you might courier.” Ulysses taps down Old Glory’s shaft, wooden nails clicking on the maple. “Believe you know much as it stands.”

The courier resigns to the quiet. Howling sands settle, coating the road in a delicate layer. Shots between feuding Marked Men pop miles away. Dull gray clouds billow between shifting ruins. The maroon sky verges on a transition to scarlet, but remains dark enough to divulge twinkles of white light in shadowy corners.

“Think if I shoot Red Glare into the sky, it’d look like a firework?”

“Want to make us a beacon for Marked Men?”

“You got that big stick don’t you? Arcade told me that one, too. Some old guy like Kimball was just like you. Keep calm and carry a big stick. Or something like that.”

Ulysses scoffs and shakes his head like the comment offends him. He tugs and readjusts his mask. The courier’s smile returns, glad to have received a reaction. Before Ulysses can stop her, she stands up, hauling Red Glare over her shoulder. She loads a rocket in its chamber, aiming it out and upward. Five steps back onto trusted ground.

“Nothing we haven’t done before.”

She fires the rocket into the sky with a blast. Red Glare breathes out a plume of exhaust and smokes at its barrel. Her stance is rock steady. The rocket sails up, far out over Hopeville and pitches down, landing atop a pillar of rubble. Dust swells up from the impact, and a guttural grind precedes the rubble’s slide. Boulders rock down, _thumping_ as they roll. The concrete stack keels over and collapses in a sandy cloud.

“Not quite what pre-war folks had in mind,” the courier says. She returns to a kneel, trading Red Glare for her rifle. The plume diminishes, revealing tiny red dots amidst the concrete.

“Struck a Marked Men encampment… Doubtful that was your intention.” Ulysses squints at the site of impact. “Road is winding. They can’t trace the origin.”

“Ought to nail ‘em a few more times then.”

“You have an insatiable desire to destroy, courier.”

“Gotta break down to rebuild. Bear and the Bull know it like a book.” The courier gives a low chuckle. Ulysses’s rubbed off on her. His eyes imply a grimace.

The courier lifts her rifle into her lap. Scratches and chips expose bare metal on the stock. Tally marks gash into the metal, counting into the dozens. A silencer extends the barrel to an almost unwieldy length. A metallic fade wraps around the grip. A black creature canters across the road below, leaving a trail in the sand. The courier sits up straighter. The tunneler disappears into the ground.

“Can’t deny that,” Ulysses says. He saw it too, but remains unmoved. She relaxes.

“I’d hate to poke at old wounds. But sometimes they have to be cleaned.”

Scarlet sky suffuses the land with a glow. The stormy haze looks like morning fog, blurring the western ranges. Every morning, Ulysses must have seen the sky go from maroon to scarlet like this. His eyes are tranquil. Within minutes, it’ll shift to a pallid yellow and remain until night once again. Something about the new year makes it more beautiful. The courier stays, though she has business back in the Mojave. Back at the Dam.

“I never noticed when the new year’d come around. I get older, that’s all. But Arcade says it’s important. For _auld lang syne_ , he said.”

“Of times long past.” Ulysses’s grip on Old Glory is firm but unstrained. “Old World term. Scottish.”

“That’s what it means? Figures.” The courier pushes her rifle back next to Red Glare. She scoots closer to Ulysses, who flinches away from the gesture. He settles as the courier stops before making touch.

“Happy New Year, Ulysses.” She pulls out her canteen of bitter drink, uncaps it, and holds it up in the air. “To times long past.”

She clinks it with an imaginary glass, and pulls another swig. She smacks her lips and runs her tongue along the inside of her mouth. Her stomach slides down inside her taking in the liquid.

“ _Eugh_ —It’s not so bad.”

“Regret will settle in soon enough.”

“Arcade said that about pre-war people, too.”

Ulysses takes out his water canteen and swaps with the courier, taking the bitter drink for himself. He pulls down his mask until it dangles around his neck. His lips are parched and pursed, but upturned at the corners. Vulnerable.

“Think I can’t handle it, huh?” the courier says.

“Never one to take advice, were you?”

He holds up her canteen of bitter drink, and the courier holds his canteen of water.

“For auld lang syne,” he says.

“For auld lang syne.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story. Happy New Year, and thanks for reading.


End file.
